


Answer Me

by Prime627



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler, 文豪ストレイドッグス | Bungou Stray Dogs
Genre: And ironically no shame, Chuuya's beginning story changes every time I look at him, Chuuya's dad is Abberline, Combining my two favorite things, F/M, Happy birthday for rosesandlads, I will make my own damn universe, Kinda feels like A Series of Unfortunate Events and James and the Giant Peach, M/M, Multi, hate it, i have no life, love it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-11-11 08:45:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11144943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prime627/pseuds/Prime627
Summary: Chuuya never knew his dad. All he's known is that he was an Englishman and he was killed. The rest he knows is from guess and rumor. So when the chance comes to go to England, Chuuya jumps on it, hoping to find answers to his many questions.





	Answer Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosesandlads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosesandlads/gifts).



**Author's Note: As I write this June 7, 2017, I realize that in two weeks, my favorite girl in the whole wide world has her birthday. I know her as the picture that occassionally comes up in my gallery while I'm scrolling through Dazai/Chuuya images (mostly erotic), as the girl I look forward to talking with every day, as the girl who steals my heart with every word. But you probably know her as a different girl. You probably know her as rosesandlads.**

**This is a gift, a fic that came to me in the final minutes of my talking to her, and she seemed intrigued by the whole idea, and is always there to stoke my creative fire when I feel like dumping water on it. So here it is: a new take on Chuuya's beginnings.**

**To be honest, I feel very underqualified. Here I am, American, attempting to write about English and Japanese culture. But what I know about both, I learned from books and shows and talkings with people who lived all around the world. What I learn, I sometimes remember. Some things come faster to me than others.**

**Thank you for reading this far. I hope you enjoy the actual story.**

\- - -

Stories are always changing if they are not written down. Some things are too fragile to be written down, or too complicated for words to know, so they are treasured in human hearts and the woes and sorrow and joy and happiness transfers from one heart to another by word of mouth. Nothing is written down. And because of this, things change.

I know three things for certain. One, my father was a detective. Second, he had blue eyes and red hair. I know this because I have both of those. Third, he was an Englishman, walking sternly down the streets, solving crimes like Sherlock Holmes, but I don't think he smoked, and by the way my aunts talk about him, he wasn't rich enough to have a partner...and he didn't have a lot of friends. In fact, the last "friend" he had was the reason he got killed.

I know I shouldn't, but sometimes, should I get change to go out and get candy or soda, I go out and I buy a bag of my father's friend's candy, and I unwrap each wrapper carefully so I can fold it into a crane to hang from my ceiling, adding to the collection my mother already put up before she died.

I miss my mother dearly. I hate my aunts furiously. I never knew my father, but I wish I did...I miss him too.

Some times, when I'm home alone (and I often am), I sneak down from my attic room and find the newspaper and page through it, searching for a picture of my father's friend. He is handsome, young, and is almost always accompanied by a servant. A butler. He wears an eyepatch. I have so many questions for him! I wish I could go to him, knock on his door and ask of him everything he knew about my father. Surely he must know something...

But then I would feel very, very small, and I'd fold the newspaper back up and set it down, hurry to my bed and sob.

How can I go back to the place I was born? How can I possibly go back? I have no money. My aunts joke about selling me out as a slave to earn a pocketful of change.

"At least we'd be rid of him," they'd joke, and the words would sting my ears. I want to get rid of them too, but I wouldn't sell them.

When I got mad some times, things would happen. Like my bed would rattle or the pencil I was sketching with would fly out of my hand. I quickly put two and two together and decided the house was haunted.

I was beaten for that exclamation at dinner, kneeling on the floor with my food bowl in my lap, using my hands to dig through the hot rice and get the generous pieces of chicken they accidentally gave me.

I didn't get to eat for three days...I was so hungry, I vowed to ignore any and all disturbances caused by my ghost...to be honest, he was my only friend.

That is, until I _was_ sold, but not to a slave master.

"You sure look appealing," the man said as we sat in his office. I had just been ushered into it from off the train, and marched through slime and gunk of the streets to this poor part of my town, but he was dressed richly and sparkled with all his jewelry. "I know a lot of women and a few men who would like a piece of you."

At first I was confused. A piece of me? What was this place? "I'm hungry."

"You'll get fed afterwards, I promise."

After what? I wanted to know really badly what was going to happen to me!

It didn't take long. I was undressed, hosed down, patted dry and redressed into a frilly sheer outfit. It itched. The woman taking care of me wore a mask, and she babied me. I didn't know what her intentions were at first, but later I was told that she was unable to have kids, and she had already miscarried two before the doctor's said she was just barely fertile. Her "miracle baby" had less than a one percent chance of existing. So she got "fixed".

"I'm sorry," she would always whisper, rubbing my head. After that, I would be walked out on a stage, clutching a hand and teetering on heeled shoes. I would glance up at the person who was holding my hand every so often, and the person changed every day.

When I was thirteen, I started smoking. It dulled this ache in my heart that appeared one day under a man, my fingers clutching his arms and my lungs gasping for air. He had called me his test, to see if he leaned towards men or women.

He liked both, me in particular.

"You're too pretty to be a man," he told me one day, gripping my face as he came inside me. "But you're too ugly to be a woman."

I wanted to ask him how I could possibly be two extremes at the same time. Instead, I smiled and licked his mouth.

One woman always came around, wearing the same perfume. I knew I was about to get treated when she walked in. She would rip me out of my stupid outfit and make me redress in slacks and a white button-up. Then we would eat lunch and she would ask about my day, and we would eventually cuddle up together on that stinky mattress...you know, she spent more money on me than anyone else? Just to talk to me. People wasted life savings for a glimpse of me, and she was dropping bills like money grew on trees.

I hadn't been outside in a while. Was that a thing now? Had the future come so soon?

I smoked a pack a day, mostly during sex, sometimes afterwards just to have something to feel. I loved the sensation of smoke filling my lungs. It was satisfying, and it helped me forget about the warm seed spilling down my legs.

I had women come to me for a thrill, of course, and I did my best. I just earned more when men came to fill me up...

My last man showed me how someone can be beautiful and ugly at the same time.

His features were beautiful. His big brown eyes swam with emotion, and I could tell that this was going to be someone to remember. He shed his ugly coat and revealed bandages striped red on his arms, and there was an especially ugly crimson streak on the bandages at his neck.

"Hey," he purred, slinking over to me like he was a fox, and I was a hen. I spread my legs instinctively, and he took my legs into his hands, pulling me closer and dragging my rear end through the puddle of seed from the last guy. "How would you like to escape?"

I stopped mid-lighting of a cigarette and just stared at him, the stick dangling in my lips, the flame begging to set the end ablaze. "E-escape?"

"I bought you for the evening." He grabbed my arms and pulled me up, flicking the cigarette out of my mouth. Then he sinched his jacket around my body and slipped ugly sweat pants up my scrawny legs. "So why don't we make the best of it?"

He took me shopping. He bought me food, bought me items. He bought me a hat, slapped it on my head and pulled me close. I thought he was after a kiss, but he had noticed my shivering. It felt good to be taken care of. I just feared the morning where I would wake up and realize it was all a dream.

The last thing he bought me was a black jacket with red trim to match my new hat.

"You look scary," he teased, cupping my face. Now I was ready to kiss him. Who was this man who treated me so differently than the others? "What's your name?"

My name? I struggled to remember it, tears burning my eyes. I dropped my head, pressing against him. "I don't remember..."

I had been in that filthy room for two years, and no one had even whispered my name. Some called me Red, others called me Freak, and most just called me Pretty. What was my name? What did my mother coo over me for three years before she died? What did my aunts shriek up the stairs to get me?

"Well, we'll have to change that, huh?" He lifted my face and smoothed his palms over my face. "Mm...you know who you remind me of? This guy I read about. What was his name? Eh....Naka...Nakaha...Nakahara Chuuya? Heh. That's a cute name. And it's bold, strong, and guess what? I think he wore one of these hats, too! It fits you, doesn't it, Chuuya?"

I sounded out the name in my head, breathed it, and then said it. I had a name? "What's your name?"

He smiled and he touched my nose with the lightest of touches. "You know, Chuu...there's something about people like us. We're born without a mom or a dad, and our last remaining parent dies within four years after our birth. Then something happens to us. We get demons, or abilities, or powers. Whatever you want to call it. I knew you were one of us from the moment I saw you."

I stopped in my tracks. "How did you know?"

"Doll...it's written all over your face." He smiled and rocked back on his heels. "Most of us don't even have names. I renamed myself, actually. Had to...But we always pick famous writers, famous poets...it's almost a rule. Like you have to cook rice before you eat it."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"I don't judge you or your lifestyles if you eat rice without cooking it, Chuuya!"

I giggled, looking down at my feet. "So...what am I?"

"You're an ability user, Chuuya. And if you want to, you can be a Mafioso. You can have a home, a family, food...love. All you have to do is say-"

"Yes!"

\- - -

So, I quit my life as a prostitute. I didn't think it would be so easy to walk away from the owner's grip, but it was harder to dodge my habits. I always expected people to beckon me into their room for loving, but they wished me a good night. I thought I would have to eat someone out or suck someone off for breakfast, but it was loaded onto my plate without a word. When I asked for seconds, it was given easily.

I packed on weight, and with Dazai's help, I packed on muscle. I was bathed almost regularily, my hair brushed and cut to a managable length. A woman mothered me again, tucking me under her parasol when it rained or if it was too sunny, and she'd sneak me snacks at night. She also made sushi, and I got to lick off the utensils.

I loved spending time with her. Her name was Kouyou. We practically grew up together...

Years went by, and when I was twenty-two, I was given the opportunity to go to England with my husband and my bastard friend.

I jumped at the chance...Kunikida was less thrilled and Dazai just wanted to see the pretty ladies.

"I love their accents," Dazai sighed dreamily. "Especially little women with dark hair and blue eyes. They're so...attractive! And uncommon! If you find one, Chuuya, grab onto her quick!"

"No thanks," Chuuya purred as he sat on Kunikida's suitcase while the man worked between his thighs to latch the latches. "I've got my sexy hubby to keep me company~"

"Just remember, it's a job, you two," Kunikida growled. The latches on his suitcase were not being friendly to him. Perhaps he shouldn't have packed so-

Chuuya lifted up and dropped his weight back down onto the suitcase. The latches snapped into place. He hopped off and wriggled. "Yeah, but what if we have spare time?"

"Do we ever have spare time?"

Dazai cooed lovingly. "Some times..."

Chuuya skipped to get his suitcase ready, thinking about how many people there would be to help him with his search, how many questions he would finally have answered.

Who was his dad? How did he die? What was his real name?


End file.
